


Sic Gloria Transit

by jdmcool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sibling Incest, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 15:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdmcool/pseuds/jdmcool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seemed a perfectly rational trade off: Give into his brother's advances for the sake of keeping him safe. No one could ever say Mycroft wasn't willing to go to extremes for Sherlock's sake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sic Gloria Transit

**Author's Note:**

> Based off this [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19351.html?thread=116714647#t116714647) at the Sherlock Kink Meme and [Sic Gloria Transit...Glory Fades by Brand New](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iOHg1rKzWuE). Somewhere in the midst of all this smut, there may actually be a plot.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta'd by the ever brilliant [ChasingRiver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver). My thanks know no bounds.

It had never actually been a secret between them. Mycroft knew from the summer after Sherlock’s thirteen birthday. He’d been twenty and home from uni with a friend; some blonde who kissed him when he thought they were all alone, never noticing the way things were a little too clear inside the house . It had been nothing more than a quick snog, but Mycroft never missed the way three breaths filled the air for a moment.

Why his brother would ever want to watch him kiss anyone had seemed meaningless at the time. He’d written it off as the boy being curious about sex and picking the wrong person to study. Because, despite all his ‘friends’, Mycroft never felt the need to have sex unless truly necessary. It was a tool for pleasing those that he loved and nothing more.

Sitting in the café next to his brother’s new flat, Mycroft idly thought that he should’ve been more observant back then. Perhaps if he had been, he wouldn’t have been in that damn place, doing his best to ignore the way Sherlock’s foot kept knocking against his own.

“You gave up your criminal ways and yet still do drugs?” Mycroft asked, trying his hardest not to sound as disappointed as he felt.

Looking up from the chips he wasn’t even bothering to pretend to eat, Sherlock nodded rather proudly. “The drugs weren’t apart of the agreement. I got the flat and stopped stealing.”

“You only got the flat by killing a man in America.”

“It pleased my landlady. Why do you care?”

Mycroft didn’t waste their time answering. They both knew it was practically his duty to care about his little brother, to make sure that nothing bad ever happened to him. Sherlock used to point out that all his caring was based on a stupid promise he’d made to their parents about what a good big brother he’d be when they brought the baby home, but Mycroft never made promises without considering what he was committing himself to.

Sighing, he shook his head. “You need to stop with the drugs. I can only imagine how awful your left arm must look.”

“Make me a deal,” Sherlock said, holding out a chip.

Taking it, Mycroft knew what they were playing at. Knew from the moment that Sherlock said he’d move and give up certain behaviours if Mycroft would stop avoiding him. It was all simply part of his little plan.

“What do you want?”

“You? Sex? A relationship?”

It was the same request he always made, one Mycroft could usually barter down to a kiss at New Year’s or allowing his brother to feel him up. It was the same request that had been occurring since the man had turned fifteen. And now, at twenty-four, it almost seemed as though the man might actually get his wish against Mycroft’s better judgment.

“You’re not even clean,” he pointed out. “How do I know I can trust your word?”

Sniffing as he brushed his hand against his nose, Sherlock shrugged. “Not sure, but I know that if you don’t today, you will later.”

“Will I?”

“Of course. I’ll keep doing cocaine, keep using more just to get a half decent high and then one day I’ll overdose. Use a bit too much or get a bit too reckless and wind up your late little brother. Could you live with that?”

Smiling humourlessly, Mycroft shook his head. He’d been trying to keep Sherlock alive and well for years now, having him watched the moment that he had the power to do so. Now, on the cusp of being the British Government itself, he knew that he could say no. He could walk away and make the lives of everyone who tried to sell to his brother hell. But it would never last because Sherlock was clever and would find a way to kill himself probably take a gun to his own head in a miserable fit of boredom and they both knew it.

He wasn’t suicidal when he was amused, but there were days even playing with death seemed to be a welcome reprieve from the idiots that filled the world. It was a trait that Mycroft understood far too well.

“Say yes,” Sherlock demanded. “Your arguments are finally useless, Mycroft. Just say yes and we’ll go up to my flat and… You can watch over me. Make sure I get clean.”

“Most junkies trade sex for drugs, not the other way around,” he pointed out, falling back on sarcasm and wit when he had nothing else.

Rising from his seat, Sherlock nodded toward the door. “Wait outside. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Do you even feel guilty for what you want?” Mycroft asked as he rose.

Thinking it over, Sherlock paused before shaking his head. “I used to, but there’s no harm we could cause each other and you’ve always been more fascinating than the rest of the world.”

Walking out, Mycroft silently hoped than Mummy had never been wise to her son’s incestuous desires. That would upset her in ways Mycroft couldn’t bear to think of, even more so if she knew of how willingly he was going along with it all. Of course, it was for a far greater purpose than Mycroft usually slept with people, and that had to mean something.

Going over to the door of 221 Baker Street, Mycroft stood there, casually looking up and down the street, watching as cars made their way by, heedless of the rain pissing down. Turning to look at the numbers on the door, he might’ve jumped when he felt a warm body press against his back had he not been trained against such reactions. Instead, he merely stood there as Sherlock reached around him to unlock the door, keeping Mycroft trapped so he couldn’t move out of the way.

When it opened, he idly wondered if the rain could actually absolve him of a sin he had yet to commit as he walked into the darkened hallway. Sherlock was practically shaking as he closed the door quietly. A fine line between the excitement of getting what he wanted and needing what he promised to give up.

“So...” Mycroft started, though whatever was supposed to follow never came. Instead he just lifted his left hand and did a ‘show me around’ gesture, feeling not unlike a common prostitute.

Sherlock chuckled under his breath as he made his way up the stairs. Though he would’ve loved to have seen the place under better circumstances, Mycroft was admittedly pleased that Sherlock wasn’t living in some cheap hole of a place anymore. As they made their way into 221B, it was clear that his brother had actually found a proper home.

Flinging himself onto the couch, Sherlock sprawled like a particularly obnoxious cat before focusing his sights on Mycroft. “So...” He said, obviously mocking his brother as he beckoned him closer.

Nodding, Mycroft took off his overcoat and hung it on the back of a rather old-looking chair. Taking a deep breath, he allowed himself to straddle his brother’s hips, his mind making a categorical list of why all of this was wrong.

The soft press of lips against his own made him want to draw back, but then there was the fact that he had agreed. In for a penny, in for a pound, he decided as he kissed back reluctantly. Sherlock ran his hand through Mycroft’s hair as he tried to pull him closer. Gasping at the violent tug of his hair, Mycroft did his best not react poorly to the tongue in his mouth, instead meeting it with his own.

Careful sweeps along his mouth turned nearly violent as Mycroft sucked too hard at his tongue on purpose. The way Sherlock would catch his lip between his teeth every time Mycroft tried to move away. A cruel, nearly punishing meeting of mouths that they each put up with because they had to and it was better than nothing.

Sherlock didn’t care how he got everything as long as he got it. Mycroft was nearly certain of that as he put up with the hands clumsily unbuttoning his jacket and waistcoat, shoving both away roughly before moving on to his trousers. Kicking them off as best he could without moving too far out of his brother’s reach, Mycroft stared down at Sherlock’s trousers wondering if he should reciprocate.

“This is so messed up,” Mycroft whispered.

Sherlock’s response was merely to run his hand down Mycroft’s arse to his thigh, hand sneaking past the leg of Mycroft’s pants on its way up again. Clenching his own fists in the cushion of the sofa, Mycroft tried to make himself believe that it was just a touch, not unlike so many others he had endured throughout his life.

“Oh it’s a right mess out there, Sherlock,” a voice said as she made her way into the flat. “Oh my.”

Tensing, Mycroft buried his face against Sherlock’s shoulder and prayed that Sherlock might show even the littlest bit of decency and take it as a sign that what they were doing wasn’t meant to happen.

With a deep breath that he let out slowly, Sherlock spoke to the woman as though nothing was out of the ordinary. “Mrs. Hudson, is there something I can help you with?”

Looking away, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, the woman shook her head. “Sorry. I didn’t know you’d be having company. I’ll just see myself off,” she said in a rush before going back to wherever it was she had come from.

“I’ll be in your room. Go make sure there are no other interruptions,” Mycroft muttered before beating a hasty retreat.

The last thing he wanted was to get caught doing what he kept telling himself he was going to do. If he could do it for a lover, he could do it for Sherlock. After all, he cared about his brother far more in the long run and it was just sex. Nothing but some quick repetitive motions until one found themselves climaxing. Simple as that.

Lying down on his brother’s bed, Mycroft laughed a bit bitterly to himself at the thought. He was already down to his pants and shirt, trying to mentally convince himself that sex with Sherlock was going to be perfectly fine. There were rivulets of water trailing down his neck that refused to dry and the increasing feeling that he might just be sick. This wasn’t just sex, this was a catastrophe that he couldn’t fix to save his life.

“Door’s locked. Mrs. Hudson likely didn’t see your face, so you’ll be more than free to show it around here again,” Sherlock said, somehow amused with all of this. Perhaps he really was a sociopath. Perhaps, if that was true, everything else might just make a bit more sense, if not also incur more worry on Mycroft’s part.

Turning the lights on Sherlock stared at him with nothing but lust in his eyes. Mycroft stared back as his stomach clenched unpleasantly. That same chorus of reasons and justifications played through his head as he watched Sherlock’s long fingers unbutton his shirt until it created a perfect frame of the boy’s pale chest.

Then he was moving closer, casually stalking over to the bed, moving like an animal out for the kill as he came to straddle his brother’s waist. Without so much as blinking, Sherlock’s fingers began to walk up his side until the man was on all fours, hands cupping the sides of Mycroft’s head. With his brother hovering over him, shirt brushing against the hands clenched at his sides, Mycroft thought it entirely unfair. A complete and utter paradox that Sherlock’s soft breaths should come out quiet and smooth while he felt as though he was gasping for air.

Whatever sanity he had left disappeared as his brother leaned in to kiss him. Mycroft moved quickly, placing his hand over his brother’s heart to stop him. For a moment, Sherlock seemed almost confused but never regretful for what he had started. Taking a shuddering breath, Mycroft closed his eyes.

“This is the first and last time,” he swore, vehemently.

Sherlock gave a low sound of acknowledgment as he smiled. “Of course,” he purred, pressing his hips to Mycroft’s, the feel of his brother’s erection enough to cause Mycroft’s eyes to open out of shock.

Mycroft saw as his brother lean in for another kiss. He turned his head to avoid the press of Sherlock’s lips, as though that would keep this act from being what it was. He laid there passively as Sherlock refused to be deterred. If anything, he seemed just as happy to have access to Mycroft’s neck as anything else.

Fingers moving to run through his brother’s hair, Sherlock tried to taste every inch of skin presented to him, worrying the crook of his neck with gentle nips and unseen smirks. Mycroft knew exactly what he was up to as he sucked at that spot, tongue occasionally slipping out to draw intricate patterns against the would be a bruise. It was completely pointless, since Mycroft didn’t need the small reminder of their incestuous tryst. It wasn’t something he was likely to forget over time.

Still, if Sherlock wanted to make it memorable, what was he to do? He simply lay there as those cupid’s bow lips moved from his neck to his collar bone, chasing after nimble fingers that undid his shirt slowly, savouring every inch of exposed skin. Running his hand up Mycroft’s soft middle, Sherlock seemed enraptured for reasons Mycroft didn’t care to question. It didn’t seem pertinent to distract his little brother from the task of laving one nipple, catching it between his teeth and sucking before repeating the process with the next.

When Sherlock finally lost interest in his chest, Mycroft almost managed to be thrilled. But then that mouth was moving down his stomach again, a heavy palm resting against the crook of his thigh. Sitting up on his arms, Mycroft frowned, watching guiltily when his brother looked up at him, smugness all over his face as he tugged Mycroft’s pants down with his teeth, exposing the prize he sought.

“Sherlock… I… I told you, this… it holds no interest for me,” he confessed almost shamefully. After all, he knew his body’s usual lack of reaction was typically enough to make others feel like they had failed or that he didn’t actually care for them, as though that was the only way he could show his interest.

Palming his still soft member, Sherlock nodded along, not in the least bit bothered. Of course, if he was willing to sleep with his brother, it only made sense that Mycroft’s lack of physical interest wouldn’t deter his wants either.

“I can fix that,” Sherlock said confidently.

Lowering his head, he gently gripped his brother’s soft prick and licked a broad stripe along it; painted along every inch of skin slowly before circling his tongue around the head. Mycroft could only watch in rapt fascination as Sherlock made a small sound of interest before taking it all into his too-hot mouth.

Gripping the bedding tight enough to make his knuckles go white, Mycroft tried to remember that he was doing this for Sherlock. Even if he was the lamb and Sherlock was the slaughter, he had to make this right. He told himself that if this could be interesting enough for Sherlock, every stuttered breath he took might keep his little brother away from cocaine.

Clenching his jaw, he did his best to enjoy the moment, nervously resting a hand on top of Sherlock’s head. It seemed the natural thing to do as he lay there, focused on the way Sherlock sucked rather reverently at his cock. It’s what expected, the steady pressure that was never guiding because Mycroft didn’t enjoy the process to begin with, even as he felt himself growing hard.

Sherlock didn’t once let that deter him. Even when he accomplished his goal, he kept sucking, moving up quickly so that way he could slowly work his way back down. Press his nose against the patch of coarse hair as he swallowed around Mycroft’s cock, eyes watching the way Mycroft clenched his jaw and turned away.

Lifting his head slowly, Sherlock ran his thumb along the underside of Mycroft’s erection. “Told you I’d fix it,” he said proudly, tracing around the slit, finger brushing over it every third time for the thrill of the shudder it forced through Mycroft’s body.

“You’re rather… clothed, don’t you think?” Mycroft asked, wanting to get it over with as soon as possible.

Looking himself over, Sherlock nodded in agreement before sitting up. Shrugging off the shirt, Sherlock let it pool around him as he grabbed Mycroft’s hand. Placing it against his straining erection, he stared at his brother in a silent plea he knew Mycroft would’ve understood without the overt gesture.

Sighing, Mycroft wasted no time undoing his brother’s trousers. It was all mechanics, really. Unbutton, unzip, tug down when Sherlock sat up a bit more to make it easier. Brush his thumb along Sherlock’s side because this had to make Sherlock happy. Not even a fraction of a second wasted on memorizing the far too prominent hip bone felt under his touch, even if a voice in the back of his mind repeated that it was only Sherlock who’d shuddered at the touch like a mantra.

With the trousers bunched around his thighs, Mycroft dully noted the fact that Sherlock hadn’t even bothered wearing pants. He knew that Mycroft would never deny him anything under the right threat and was nothing if not impatient. Moving to lean back against the headboard, Mycroft smiled as he watched Sherlock kick off his pants the same way he had as a child getting ready for bed. Except Sherlock was nothing like he used to be.

All long limbs and statuesque smoothness, he could’ve been perfect. Someone people would happily throw themselves at him if not for the track marks on his arm, the fact that he was too thin with a sickly look about him. The drugs made him fragile, a thought that made Mycroft’s cock twitch for reasons he refused to examine. No, it was best to get it over with, he told himself as he pulled Sherlock flush against him.

“Lubricant?”

Stunned, Sherlock stared at him for a moment before stretching out toward the nightstand. It would’ve been impossible not to notice the expanse of back that led into his back, the body heat so close to him. It was all a chemical reaction, but it still felt nice. If he could’ve gotten away with merely holding his brother, rather than what was to come, Mycroft would’ve given in much more willingly.

But there was really no time to turn back. Sherlock was soon over him again, pouring a generous amount of lube into his hand as though it was all some show for his benefit. Closing his hand around two fingers, Sherlock began to use them to fuck his own fist, a childish action that made Mycroft roll his eyes before he found them closing all together as that fist wrapped around his cock.

Thrusting into the hand was an instinct he couldn’t control, much like the hiss that escaped him. Still, Sherlock seemed so smug again as he began to stroke slowly, gripping too gently. It was the complete opposite of the hard and fast way Mycroft tended to handle himself; Sherlock’s method was designed for pleasure instead of efficiency.

Feeling the hand slow to a stop, Mycroft nearly questioned it when he saw the way his brother was shaking. Legs spread wide as he rocked his hips into nothing but air as he fucked himself on his fingers, Sherlock was something wrong and sinful. The way his thin chest heaved with every broken breath, strangled cries spilling past his lips as he did something Mycroft couldn’t even begin to fathom.

Snaking an arm around Sherlock’s waist, Mycroft gripped his wrist. He swallowed down the lump in his throat as he realized he was chest to chest with Sherlock. He opened his mouth to ask for something he couldn’t quite name. Whether it was for Sherlock to stop taunting and teasing him or to get it over with was beyond even his rather verbose skills.

Kneeling up, though, Sherlock seemed to understand everything perfectly. He merely leaned in for a kiss that Mycroft didn’t hesitate to meet him in, resting a hand on the man’s shoulder as he pressed himself a bit more fully into his brother. Kept the kiss almost chaste as he let Mycroft slowly work up to sliding his tongue into Sherlock’s ever willing mouth, the intrusive appendage finding its shelter as Sherlock slowly sank down onto Mycroft’s cock.

And even the most pure of heart would have been hard pressed not to revel in the sensation of Sherlock’s tight, hot heat encompassing them. There was no holding back the gasp of pleasure that escaped him, even if it was drowned out by Sherlock’s own desperate moans. For what seemed like eternity, they stayed that way: Mycroft’s arm draped loosely around Sherlock’s waist, his brother gripping his shoulder as they both breathed in the other’s air.

But then Sherlock began to move, smirking at Mycroft when the man’s grip on his hip tightened a he lifted himself up before sinking back down again. Creating a steady pace that was probably only driving Sherlock insane because everyone knew the man didn’t do anything slowly. It was a puzzle: those, Mycroft could handle. So, he made the effort to thrust up to meet his brother’s hips. Sherlock gave a startled moan, fingers tightening briefly around Mycroft’s shoulder.

Sherlock began to move in earnest, and Mycroft helped out by participating. The slick feel of their chests sliding against each other caused the elder Holmes to move faster, wanting it to be over as Sherlock’s kisses became more desperate.

“I love you,” Mycroft whispered into his mouth.

Sherlock’s reply was panting breaths and stuttering hips, an almost anguished noise escaping his throat as he came in hot pulses all over Mycroft’s hand.

And if he could’ve stopped, he would’ve but Mycroft’s body was determined to find a release, regardless of the person it was with, as he kept thrusting through Sherlock’s orgasm. Planting his feet on the bed for better leverage, he started to actually fuck his brother in earnest. With his eyes closed, he could almost pretend those whimpers in his ear were someone else. Anyone but Sherlock, whose nails were digging into his back, clenching himself around Mycroft’s cock every time he thrust into him. Sherlock and that painfully perfect mouth muttering nonsense against his neck, temporarily reduced to something common and boring. Truly broken for a brief moment.

Mycroft’s release hit him like a brick wall, everything out of his control for one brief, pleasurable moment as he buried himself in Sherlock, shooting his load as deep as he could into the other. When it was all done, he didn’t move. He just sat there, panting helplessly as he felt his brother’s heart pounding against his.

When Sherlock got up and made his way to the bathroom for a flannel, Mycroft could only watch rather helplessly until the man came back, perfectly clean, flannel in hand. Sitting there as his brother cleaned him off, Mycroft willed his mind to stay quiet longer than necessary as Sherlock took up residence between his legs again, though this time it was just to relax with one another like they used to.

Holding Sherlock, Mycroft stared at the wall as he carded his hand through his brother’s hair. He didn’t enjoy the sex, not really. Not much more than he ever had before, but even that was too much considering that it was Sherlock. To do that again, continuously, until Sherlock tired of him, was still wrong for a number of reasons beginning and ending with the fact that Sherlock was his brother. It was more than enough to make Mycroft’s chest start to feel tight again.

Judging by the way he cuddled closer, Sherlock had noticed. He pressed a kiss over Mycroft’s heart. With a pitiful smile, Mycroft cupped Sherlock’s cheek and kissed him, moving when he felt his brother’s lips part beneath his own. He knew perfectly well that he could never give Sherlock what he was after a life free of lies and a meaningful relationship wasn’t something Mycroft could even offer under normal circumstances.

But it was what Sherlock wanted and if the alternative was watching his brother fall further down his personal rabbit hole and become more disconnected from the world, well, that wasn’t actually an alternative. He knew that in time, he might be able to sell himself on the fact that he loved Sherlock in the same perverse way his brother loved him; that he enjoyed whatever it was they had now.

Glancing at the man in question, he noted the fact that Sherlock had at least managed to tired himself out. It was much like when they were younger, really. Play along with Sherlock’s childish games to get him to take his naps or go to sleep more willingly. If it was all a game, it was easier to deal with and had a purpose. Not to mention, games were meant to be enjoyed. He didn’t have to think why he found his brother’s trouble nature so interesting.


End file.
